


The Beautiful Game

by popfly



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: David and Patrick meet at a baseball game.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 42
Kudos: 161





	The Beautiful Game

**Author's Note:**

> Gray wanted the challenge of writing short AU situations, and after prompting a few I stole this one back for myself. Note the pre-slash tag, it's just a lil meet-cute.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Gray and TINN for encouraging and validating, and to Gray for the beta.

It’s the perfect night for a baseball game. It’s hot but not too humid, there’s a breeze coming off the lake and ruffling the flags flying over the scoreboard, and beyond the stadium lights, the sun is setting in a cloudless sky. Patrick and his buddies have great seats, beers in their cupholders and a bag of peanuts to pass, and Patrick could not be happier.

They stand for the anthems, and Patrick pulls his cap off and holds it over his chest while the school choir performs both the “Star-Spangled Banner” and “O Canada,” and then wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist before he jams his cap back on. Before he gets a chance to sit down, more people make their way down the row, headed for the empty seats on Patrick’s left.

“Excuse me, thanks so much,” says the guy shuffling awkwardly past Patrick. He’s slightly taller than Patrick, wearing all black despite the heat of the evening, and he smells like expensive cologne. He settles into his seat next to Patrick, chattering away with the man he came with, and props his elbow on the armrest.

His wool-covered elbow. He’s wearing a sweater. In the middle of July. Just looking at his completely-covered forearm makes Patrick feel sweatier.

“Eh, Pat?” Freddie says, and Patrick tears his attention away from the sweater to glance over.

“What?”

Freddie rolls his eyes. “Pass the peanuts?”

“Oh.” Patrick shakes his head, holds out the bag. “Sorry.”

The guy continues being distracting all through the ceremonial first pitches, the material of his weird, drapey shorts - and why is he wearing shorts with a sweater, Patrick wonders - brushing against the bare skin of Patrick’s knee, where his own shorts have ridden up. He hogs the armrest, and he’s so warm. 

Patrick can hear snatches of the conversation he’s having with the other man, and by the time the sideline reporter has asked a kid to yell “play ball” into her mic, Patrick has gathered that sweater guy is David, a store owner trying to gain the other man’s business.

By the end of the first inning, Patrick is totally absorbed in David and Henry’s conversation. He misses several plays and has to ask Mike to fill him in so Patrick can catch up in his scoring. He scratches hit lines and tries not to bump David’s elbow with his own as he flips his scorebook over.

“You’re out of it, you feeling okay?” Mike says after he has to ask Patrick twice if he needs another beer. 

“Yeah, fine,” Patrick says, and knocks the brim of his cap back with his knuckle so he can meet Mike’s eyes. He smiles until Mike nods, satisfied, and turns back to the field. The Blue Jays execute a beautiful double play, and Patrick clings to his focus as he marks it down, listening to David feign enthusiasm before launching back into a sales pitch.

Patrick can’t help the scoff that escapes him, tries to keep it quiet. There’s a brief pause in David’s monologue, and he shifts slightly so his shoulder is turned further away from Patrick. Patrick presses his lips together, tunes into his friends’ conversation instead.

It happens again in the third inning, David exclaiming, “That was a great, um, hit! He made it all the way to the middle base!”

“Second,” Patrick mutters before he can stop himself. He sees the swivel of David’s head out of the corner of his eye, and pretends he was talking to himself as he puts the hit in his scorebook.

“Anyway,” David says, annoyance coloring his tone before he moderates it, going back to Henry.

A flush rises up the back of Patrick’s neck, but the next time he hears David mangle a baseball term he corrects him, and he feels more amusement than embarrassment when David catches him. He knows it’s kind of a dick move, but he can’t seem to help himself.

At the end of the inning, Patrick stands up, brandishing his empty cup. “Beer run,” he says, and Mike stands up to let him pass. “You guys want?” Mike shakes his head, he’s switched over to the cans the roaming vendors carry, but Freddie nods as he gets up, passing off his own empty.

Patrick trots up the steps to the concourse, dropping the cups in the nearest recycling bin and then heading towards the washroom. He’s almost there when someone grabs his elbow, and he spins around, coming face to face with David.

“Oh,” Patrick says, feeling a grin tugging at his mouth. “Hey.”

“ _Hey?_ ” David asks, incredulous. He crosses his arms, covering an intricate pattern of embroidery on the front of his sweater. The sleeves fall back over his wrists, and for some reason that makes Patrick grin harder. “I’m trying to gain a very important client, and your snarky interjections are not helping.”

“Snarky interjections?”

David narrows his eyes, full eyebrows pulling in and down. He has an expressive face. Patrick suddenly wants to see what other shapes he can get David’s mouth to make. “You know what I’m talking about,” he says, and then purses his lips. Patrick drags his gaze up and away.

“Maybe I thought it would help you with your client, if you sounded like you knew what you were talking about.”

That makes David’s mouth pinch harder, cheek creasing as he bites down. A muscle in his darkly-stubbled jaw jumps. Patrick wants to touch it. With his fingertips and maybe his tongue.

He hasn’t been this instantly attracted to anyone in … hell, maybe ever. The guy is wearing a sweater in the summer, his shorts are sagging in the middle, and he’s glaring like Patrick just kicked his dog, but Patrick wants to drag him into the bathroom. The sight of his hairy shins and perfectly styled hair and devastating jawline, clenched in irritation, makes that want edge closer to need. Patrick shuffles his shoes on the concrete.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and David’s whole body softens slightly. He releases his cheek from between his teeth, and his shoulders drop. “I couldn’t help myself. And maybe sounding like you understand baseball will help with your client.”

David cuts his eyes sideways, and then sighs, dropping his arms. “I’ll never understand baseball. I’m just hoping I can fake it well enough for Henry to like me and want to work with me.”

“I could help you understand baseball,” Patrick says. It’s not the offer his body wants him to make, but it’s better than just apologizing and letting David walk away.

“Do you, like, work for the team?”

“What?” Patrick laughs. “No. I’m offering as—”

“I just wondered because you’re taking notes.”

“Taking - oh, no, I’m keeping score. I mark down all the hits, the plays.”

David tilts his head, and now his mouth is curling to the other side. It’s a smirk, a playful one, and it stirs something in Patrick’s belly. “For fun?”

“Yes, for fun.”

“Mm hm. Well, you clearly know the baseball very well, but how is that going to help me with my client tonight?”

The PA announcer calls the first batter of the next inning, and Patrick startles. Mike will butcher his scorebook if he leaves it with him for too long, and he still has to use the washroom and get the beer. “How about this,” he says, and steps closer to David. He gets a whiff of David’s cologne again, woodsy and a little smoky. “If you need a term, nudge me with your elbow and I’ll whisper it to you. And I can nudge you if there’s something happening you should be commenting on. And then you’ll let me take you to a game and teach you everything you need to know to impress Henry in the future.”

David’s mouth tucks further into his cheek, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes now that wasn’t there before. He tosses his head, and then reaches out to brush his fingers along the edge of Patrick’s t-shirt sleeve. They leave goosebumps in their wake, and David grins like he knows exactly how much even that brief touch affected Patrick. “Deal,” he says, and then turns away. 

“What the hell, dude?” Freddie asks when Patrick gets back with their beer.

“Sorry, the lines were long,” he says, loud enough for David to hear, and catches the edge of David’s smile as he settles back into his seat.

Their system of nudging and whispering works; Patrick makes sure David properly compliments the Blue Jays on their bunting in the fifth, and knows that a triple is hit in the sixth. He doesn’t need any prompting for the home run in the seventh, leaping to his feet with everyone else in the row to cheer. He nudges Patrick anyway, and the warmth of him seeps through his sweater, through Patrick’s shirt, over Patrick’s skin until he can feel the heat in his cheeks.

In the eighth, Patrick hears David seal the deal, and he quickly scribbles, “Congrats!” and his phone number at the top of the page in his scorebook. He nudges David, who has his phone out for Henry to electronically sign the contract right there. David glances down and nods, and when he takes his phone back he types Patrick’s number into it.

The Blue Jays win, and the crowd is jubilant as they stream out of their seats. Patrick tips David a wink before he turns to follow Mike out of their row and up the steps. But David is right behind him, and under the guise of reaching for the railing, brushes his hand against Patrick’s hip.

Before they lose each other in the crowded concourse, Patrick turns and catches David’s eyes. “You’ll call?”

David shrugs a shoulder, smirking again, but then he pulls out his phone and taps at the screen. Patrick feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and a smile spreads out over his face. “Patrick,” Freddie calls, and Patrick goes.


End file.
